Your Expiring Date Is-
by scythe's serenade
Summary: Summary: Thomas was a hitman with an expiration date, but his buddy decided to be nice and save him, then dump the totally [not dead] body on his old boyfriend(s)' doorstep for, hmm, sh*ts and giggles. Thomas/Minho/Newt.


Summary: Thomas was a hitman with an expiration date, but his buddy decided to be nice and save him, then dump the totally [not dead] body on his old boyfriend(s)' doorstep for, hmm, sh*ts and giggles. Thomas/Minho/Newt.

A/N: Ah, the OT3 that I love quite dearly, it's been quite a while! Updates will come sporadically, sorry.

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The moonlight made Gally feel kinda morose. Moonlit nights meant he probably wouldn't be sent out for a kill because they didn't provide enough cover. It also meant that he'd most likely be doing… Other things.

Like getting tacos, which he liked. With a handful of hot sauce packets for good measure. Alternatively, saving his stupid shank of a partner from getting cancelled. Then having to haul his unconscious, somewhat pincushioned body into a totally stolen stealth jet. All of the wounds were shallow- Thomas' latest fuck up had been the last stand an excellent career as a hitman; he'd failed to kill the kid who was in the room while he executed his diplomat father. He'd been caught in the process of smuggling the kid to a safe location, and was brought in for "repercussions". Gally did always (secretly) admire the qualities that made others in their field call Thomas unprofessional; though defying an international crime syndicate wasn't really on his list of things to do today.

He and Thomas were sorta "ride or die" bitches so here they were. In a jet. Running away from their former employers. If Thomas made fun of his eyebrows again after this, he could now justifiably shoot him in the balls.

Now, being in close contact with one bloke for the better part of ten years made you really get to know someone. Like, flowery hugs and couch therapy. He and Thomas had shit they'd never tell each other, but he'd be a terrible assassin if he couldn't pick up on things unsaid. Like how homeboy would mutter, faintly, two names in his sleep. Didn't matter if they were in the middle of the Saharan Desert or the hiding from mercs in the bowels of some backwater slum in Azerbaijan, it was always a "Newt" or a "Minho". Sometimes both. Gally never brought it up with him, but from what he could tell, those names probably didn't belong to dead people. The names of dead people correlated to tossing, turning, and walking up in a horrible cold sweat as you saw the light flicker from their eyes as their brains exited the other end of their skull-

Gally had dead people in his closets. Thomas? He'd sleep like a baby, even back on their first mission together (which include a heavy bombing sesh somewhere in Sudan). Those were the names of alive people, and Gally had guessed that first night that judging by his partner carried a torch for those like a puppy, they weren't just "close friends."

Being the wonderful hitman partner that he was, the second after they'd averted a U.S. - Russia international incident by killing off some corrupt politicians Gally tracked down this "Newt" "Minho". Minho, a twenty-nine year old of Korean descent was a personal trainer living with his bar-owning partner, Newt, who was twenty-eight and of British descent in some American suburb. They had grown up poor, both of them entering military service to fight in the First Crank War. When they got out, Newt left infected with a new strain of bioweaponry that left his entire left leg crippled. This is where things got weird. Neither Newt or Minho had the means or connections to find or pay for Newt's treatment, but three weeks later, Newt had papers for one of the best medical facilities in the world, located in Paris. The couple even stayed in France for the three-month duration of his treatment, which was astronomically expensive even by a rich man's standards.

Gally's headstone at a swanky military base in Washington reads that he died during the First Crank War, at the Battle of the Maze after North Korea had started dropping bombs on a very densely forested area of Southern America, where the twists and turns in the trees were identical for miles and miles. He hadn't died, no. He sold his soul to WICKD during the war for ten million dollars, in exchange for fly his mother and sister to Hawaii and away from the Crank Plagues. At the age of nineteen, he was both dead and an international assassin.

Thomas joined three years later, shortly after the war had ended. While he may not have known the exact correlation between his partner and his mystery boys while they were still part of WICKD, the goddamn engagement ring he found in Thomas' bag when they were making their (hasty) exit from HQ earlier in the day was… illuminating.

The computer on the dashboard of the jet beeps, and Gally knows that they've reached their destination- the last known address of Newt Sangster and Minho Lee.

Thank the heavens that WICKD invented very quiet, stealthy, and stealable jets- he lands the jet on the street, opens the cockpit door, and shoves Thomas onto the cozy suburban home doorstep, dropping the duffel bag containing the next to him. There's two cars in the driveway, signaling that the owners were in.

Gally's not a sentimental person. Now that he's defected, it'd probably be gracious to go advise his remaining alive people in WICKD to get out. WICKD had progressively become more shady over the years- maybe he'd go start a goddamn rebellion or something, guns blazing. Also, maybe take a trip to Hawaii to see his sister and mum a bit.

He throws a half-hearted punch at Thomas' shoulder, rings the doorbell, and simply disappears.

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There's a groan from the larger silhouette under the covers, stirring. "What the hell man? It's four am. Are the neighborhood punks at it again?"

"Don't be a hypocrite now Minho- we were those punks at some point." Newt teases groggily, rising from the bed and flicking on the light. Commotion at this time of night meant two things- a house fire that needed help putting out or some kids who had too many shots. Moving briskly in case the previous was true, Newt pulled on a pair of black sweatpants that hung low on his waist (probably Minho's) and jogged lightly down the stairs to the front door.

Half-awake, he pulled open the door with mild irritation. "What's going on- WHAT THE EVER LOVING HELL." Minho is behind him in an instant, and the shock reverberates through both of them.

Their dead boyfriend of ten years, the one that they last saw boarding a the plane on his way to a job interview that would get them the money that they need for Newt's leg. Only, he never came back. The plane was never found.

He's dreaming right? Sleepwalking was new. There's no way Thomas was here. Bleeding. Unconscious. Not a few thousand feet underwater, ripped to shreds by a supposed engine malfunction.

There's a mess of incoherent words spewing from Newt's mouth, but none of it registers because Minho turns on heel to sprint inside for a phone to call 911.

A hand shoots out from the ground and stops him before his does, almost tripping him clean on his face. Thomas, awake, flashes them both a lopsided grin.

"What, I don't get a 'welcome home' from either of you?"

Newt throws himself on top of Thomas, wounds and all. "I am dreaming. You aren't alive. I'm going to wake up in two seconds and it'll just be Minho and I alone and how could you do that to us please don't leave please-" He's sobbing uncontrollably, and Min, Min, the last one to break down always, is holding his shoulder like there's no tomorrow. It's uncomfortable, they're on a doorstep for god's sake, but _oh wow hello there._

Thomas, straining, threads his hand through the blond hair mass attached to his side, blood dripping onto the concrete. Slurring his words a little, he catches eye contact. "Newt- hey babe I know you have a million questions and I'll answer them later, I promise, but we can't go to the hospital, ok? I can stitch myself up in the bathroom, no worries."

"What? What do you mean, no hospital-" Newt's hands are shaking, but in a display of strength Thomas doesn't remember him possessing _at all,_ Minho supports half of the ex-assassin's weight over shoulder and hauls him inside the door, quickly making their way to the bathroom down the hallway. Newt is already on his feet and up the stairs to grab their first-aid kit for when the neighborhood kids decide to get too rough.

"Jesus Thomas, what have you been eating since you got out? You feel like you gained a hundred pounds or so," Minho jokes weakly, but Thomas can see the color's completely drained from his face. His memories were fuzzy- he remembered the diplomat's kid in Geneva and then getting caught at the border, being caught and waiting for death-

 _Oh, Gally, that shithead._

Gally was one of the best. Thomas had known that since day one. A bit dense, but with instincts faster than any other operative, he evened out Thomas' analytical mind and skill set. More so, he'd found out about Thomas' greatest secret. That eyebrow fucker probably liked the idea of him in eternal debt, but he couldn't help feeling grateful. It would have cost him immeasurably- they both joined WICKD as a means to an end, but Thomas had always intended, no matter how many the years, to get out. Gally, who had been in for longer than he had, didn't seem to have any intention of leaving. It was a lifestyle he knew his partner relished, a way to hide from the carnage that they'd both witnessed.

None of that mattered now though, because now, they were on the run. And things were now a thousand times more dangerous than before.

Minho deposited him on the toilet seat with a groan, and Thomas felt the room spin quite violently. Judging by the trail down the hallway, he must've lost more blood than he thought.

"Thanks, man," he forced out.

"Don't-don't talk. Save your breath. I'm going to cut off your shirt, ok?" Pity, Thomas thought. Assassins were usually well clothed these days. The _previously_ white shirt was most likely Armani. Having masqueraded as a high-end society man for the better part of a decade, Thomas understood luxury when it smacked him across the face.

Newt came running in with the med kit, and Thomas noted quietly that if he could run now, the fancy ass treatment must have worked. _Good,_ because that meant that all of the killing had been worth it.

Shirt removed, he surveyed his bleeding abdomen. Multiple flesh wounds on the chest, and some dripping down the back from some sadistic knife torture, but nothing too bad. A gunshot wound in the leg with no exit wound, and _shit_ that was going to be a motherf*cker to remove.

Digging around the plastic pouch on the counter, Thomas found the pair of tweezers he was looking for.

"Hey what do you think you're going to do with that-" Gritting his teeth, he plunged the blue plastic tips into his thigh and _oh_ pain was a mistress that he hated. The tips closed around something round, and shaking violently, the small misshapen metal dropped onto the floor/

The world decided to tip violently, and he was out before his head hit the white-stained red floor tiles.

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(to be continued)

A/N: Did you like it? Leave a review, if you will. See you next time!


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